


Rumoured Nights

by saverockandsoulpunk (orphan_account)



Series: Rumoured Nights [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Fluff, M/M, Oh god, basically true to life, bc ima wful, idk how to tag this, not that anyone is searhcing the tags for fic about patricks mom right, patrick is confused and sensible, patricks mom i mean not enough to matter, pete is an emo flower fairy what can i say, teen for swearing basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/saverockandsoulpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As his eyesight adjusted and his brain woke up, he realised there were flowers everywhere. Like, in all different colours, petals scattered across the floor, garlands hung around the window and along the walls and one of exclusively pink flowers that looked like they definitely didn't grow in Chicago, was hung around Patrick's neck.<br/>"What?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumoured Nights

**Author's Note:**

> yup. i'm still sick so here's more fic... apparently i'm well enough to rhyme but not well enough to pick a decent title. (thanks the academy is for the one i've got)  
>  **EDIT: I made a tumblr for taking requests saverockandsoulpvnk & i'll try and write p much anything peterick especially in one of the verses I've already written :D **

When Patrick woke up, he didn't immediately notice anything. When he did notice, it wasn't the new smell he noticed but the lack of an old one: it's no secret that teenage boys' rooms don't usually smell all that great. If you are the teenage boy who happens to occupy the room, it's probably not a big deal - you get used to the smell. So Patrick woke up, tried desperately to go back to sleep, did some waking up stretching movements and took a deep breath in and only then did he notice the smell.

  
He rubbed his eyes in confusion and sat up. As his eyesight adjusted and his brain woke up, he realised there were flowers _everywhere_. Like, in all different colours, petals scattered across the floor, garlands - _garlands_ \- hung around the window and along the walls and one of exclusively pink flowers that looked like they definitely didn't grow in Chicago, was hung around Patrick's neck.  
" _What_?" He mumbled to himself, ripping the one from his neck: it itched, and he hated the smell of roses.  
  
"Patrick, sweetie! Are you up?"  
_Shit_. If Patrick's mom came in here she would think it was some kind of prank and Patrick would be in _so_ much trouble. It probably _was_ a prank, but Patrick hadn't figured out the who or the why yet and he didn't want to get the blame.  
"Uhh, yeah, mom! Just getting dressed!" He called back quickly.  
"Okay, honey. Breakfast in ten minutes!"  
  
While Patrick pulled on some jeans and a shirt, he thought about what to do about the flowers. Cleaning them all up would probably take at least an hour, which he didn't have time for, but his mom was bound to come in at some point during the day and what would she make of this? His best hope was to make sure she didn't see them until he was safely at school, and then come home and pretend he knew nothing about it. Who the _fuck_ did it though? He could see almost no point in going to this much effort just to annoy him.  A good old sharpie to the face would be any teenage boy's method of choice.

Patrick sighed and buried his head in his hands. He thought about leaving a note in case the culprit came back, but decided his mom would probably find it anyway and the things he wanted to say to whoever did this were _not_ mom-friendly. Maybe the perpetrator (or perpetrators) had stayed in the room or something to watch his reaction. Hopefully, he'd disappointed them. They should have guessed that, messing with Patrick, a.k.a the most boring person in the suburbs of Chicago, and most suburbs were pretty boring to start with.

  
"Yeah, ha ha, you got me! Kind of a dumb prank, if you don't mind me saying," Patrick said quietly, feeling stupid, "Uh, I don't know what reaction you expected? I mean, I _do_ hate the smell of roses, so...? Wouldn't it have been easier to just hide a dead fish in my sock drawer or something?"  
There was no reply. Rolling his eyes at himself, Patrick went downstairs. He ate his waffles and went to school, having a happily flower free day. When he got home, the flowers were gone.  
  
***  
  
"What did you do to your room, Rick?" Patrick's mom enquired mildly, coming to stand in the doorway of his room, where there was not even a single petal to be seen.  
Patrick started. "I- uh - It was a-" He felt a little guilty that his mom had had to tidy it up - he had planned to do it himself when he got home. She looked at him, puzzled.

"It smells _lovely_! Mm, what a change," she chuckled, and disappeared to make dinner. Patrick boggled. Maybe he'd imagined it completely?  
  
Shaking his head, he disappeared to the basement and the drum kit and smashed away at it for a good hour. When his mom called him for tea, he felt a good deal more relaxed. He wished he had his guitar, but it firstly wasn't even his, and secondly was at his dad's house. He spend the rest of the evening doing homework with his window open, humming to himself.

  
***

  
The next day, Patrick breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a flower-free bedroom. While he was pulling his pyjama shirt off, he noticed that this was not _quite_ true.  
On his desk lay a small bouquet of flowers - noticeably rose-free - and, Patrick gaped, a small _guitar_.

It was the weirdest looking one he'd ever seen: it was small and every inch of it was made of wood; only the tuning pegs had been polished and the wood that made the body was rough and uneven and looked like it might have just been cut from a tree; the strings felt too soft to be steel; most remarkable of all, the intricate carvings over every inch of its surface, twisting vine-like patterns, mainly. It had dots along the fretboard that were suspiciously shiny, looking like they _could_ be gold - not that Patrick's overactive brain really had any way to know for sure.  
  
When Patrick, still gaping, picked it up to examine it, he noticed in huge, scruffy handwriting - which was odd, as surely the  person who carved all these beautiful, intricate designs would have at least relatively neat writing - the word ' _Padraig_ ' was scrawled along the side. There didn't seem to be any other writing.

Drowning in confusion, Patrick eyed the word. There were no guitar makers that he knew of called _Padraig_ , and this guitar obviously didn't come from any standard company anyway. It was only when Patrick said the word aloud, trying a few alternate pronunciations, that he realised what it was.  
_His_ name. A strange, old Irish spelling that he vaguely remembered from researching the origins of his name in third grade. Reeling, Patrick thumbed the carving.

The flower-decked bedroom was one thing, but what was happening now was much harder to explain. Giving him a strange, hand carved guitar with an archaic spelling of his name on it, with a bouquet of flowers that - _oh my god._ And he'd said out loud that he didn't like the smell of roses, and the next day he got a bouquet with no roses. Had he said something about wanting his own guitar out loud too?  
  
Five minutes of scanning through his brain for everyone he knew and Patrick quickly decided that no one he knew had anywhere near the right combination of skill, motive and frankly, insanity to come up with a plan like this one. Patrick felt a little sick. It wasn't anyone he knew, but they knew his name, and they'd been listening to him at least once when he'd thought there was no one there.  
  
This was starting to not look like a prank, at all. Patrick lodged the guitar under his bed and guiltily looked at the flowers. Someone, even if they were a creepy stalker, had gone to a lot of effort with them. It felt wrong to just smush them under the bed. There was a glass of drinking water on his nightstand. He shoved them in hastily and headed downstairs. At the last moment, he turned on his heel.

  
"Um. I'm- wow, well thank you for the guitar, I guess? This is, this is kind of creeping me out, though? You could always. I don't know... Who even _are_ you? I would _really_ like to know what's going on, y'know, that would, like, that would be kind of great? Also, my name is actually spelt like _P-A-T-R-I-C-K_ , but thanks for the, um, thanks for the thought?"  
  
***  
  
Patrick considered staying up all night to catch the mysterious person, but he had a _ton_ of exams tomorrow and he didn't want to be pulling an all nighter. He left the window open and slept uneasily.  
  
When he woke up, it was very possible he'd dreamed it, but he thought he remembered waking up in the night and seeing someone with mischievous brown eyes, watching him for a moment and then smiling at him and dancing away before he could come to his senses.

Patrick wasn't at all surprised to wake up to another, roseless, bouquet and two drumsticks with more intricate patterns. One had his name, spelt correctly, inlaid in the same suspiciously gold-looking material. The bouquet from yesterday was also gone.

  
Patrick put the new flowers into the glass of water and shoved the drumsticks in his sock drawer, not wanting to have to explain them to his mom.  
" _Thanks_ ," he whispered on impulse.  
His mom was calling, so he disappeared to have breakfast, but when he returned he decided it was time to have a heart to heart with his window.  
  
"Ok _ay_ ," he began, facing the open window, "I'm actually really grateful but like, _seriously_ , what is the point of all this? We're still at _who are you_ , but also _why?_ I'm really confused, and I hate that, and it's kind of making me a little anxious now. If you- _Whatever_. You know where I'll be."

He thought suddenly, with a little gasp, "Are you _shy_? I'm starting to- not to be rude, but I'm starting to think you're not like, a normal member of human society. I don't mind if you're, like, a hermit, as long as you're not stealing shit, I'll totally be your friend? C'mon, this was the third date, and you know what they say about that: third date means stop mysteriously and semi-creepily eavesdropping and leaving amazing but kind of odd gifts, right?"

  
Patrick's mom chose this moment to appear. He hoped she hadn't heard any of his weird spirit conversing. She noticed the open window and rolled her eyes.  
" _Patrick_! It's freezing in here. Aw, and the windowsill's all wet. Stop leaving your window open at night, honey."  
"Sorry, mom," Patrick lied.  
  
***  
  
Patrick was buzzing with nervous excitement, which made it difficult to sleep, but he was going to meet the mysterious person, finally. He'd had a realisation at some point at school and, though he had about one percent faith in it, had spent his free period guiltily researching ' _faery_ ' with an _ae._

  
It was about midnight when he woke up to his doorbell ringing incessantly, and without thinking scurried downstairs and threw open the door before his mom woke up. When he opened it, doorbell still ringing until the moment it was fully open, he saw an unclear silhouette disappear into the treeline. It was much too far away to have gotten there between the time the doorbell had stopped ringing and now. Patrick heard no thudding footsteps, no laughter, just an echo of a sound too loud to have come from the distant figure. _You left your window shut._  
  
Patrick stared out of the door in confusion and then slammed it, winced at the volume, flew up the stairs, threw open his window and wrote _sorry_ on it in the condensation. He sat cross legged on the bed, waiting for what felt like two hours, staring impatiently at the window before giving up and starting to drift off. The _instant_ his head hit the pillow, he heard a small noise and sat bolt upright, a combination of shock from the impact and the noise. There was a guy in Patrick's room.  
  
Patrick was pretty sure the guy couldn't have climbed in through the window in the time it took for him to fall almost-asleep. He stood upright and stared at Patrick, an expression of surprise in his whiskey eyes, looking like a guilty puppy. Patrick frowned at him.  
  
Patrick's first thought was irritated embarrassment - he'd been expecting some kind of old, kindly tree spirit who had decided that Patrick deserved some benevolent attention. This... This overgrown _scene kid_ with his tight jeans and too-short hoodie and his lopsided, apologetic smile and his melting eyes- this was even more confusing than the benevolent spirit theory. Patrick's brain could find literally no explanation for the guy in his room.

His second thought was that the guy looked _ill_. His eyes were sunken and his face looked grey, and his whole person gave the impression of _wilting_. "You look ill," Patrick said, intelligently.  
The guy raised an eyebrow at him.

"' _Oh, hi. Thanks for all the gifts, I know you spent a long time on them, and you're ridiculously hot, by the way_ '?" he suggested.  
Patrick flailed even more at that. "It... was _you_?" From the sight of him, ninety percent of Patrick's guesses had involved the guy and the presents being unrelated, him being a college friend of Patrick's brother's, or _something_ , sneaking in to play a prank.

  
The guy rolled his eyes. " _Yes_ , it was me."  
Meaning to ask him for something in the way of an explanation, Patrick instead asked, "Are you _sure_ you're okay? You look _really_ sick. If you're here to throw up in my brother's bed, it's down the hall."  
The guy found this hilarious and doubled over laughing, only straightening up after about a minute and looking sheepish at the daggers in Patrick's eyes. "Nah, I'm okay. It's just being this far into town, s'not good for me, especially in winter."  
  
Patrick stared at him. "What does that even _mean_? Look, can you either explain or leave, 'cause I think you're drunk and it's sort of freaking me out."  
Apparently, this meant nothing to the guy, who pouted and brandishing the wooden guitar. While Patrick's rain was trying to figure out how he was so suddenly holding it, he begged, "Will you sing for me, _Padraig_?"

His voice was suddenly sweet, and Patrick could tell he was using the weird spelling from the way he emphasised the first 'd' and his teasing intonation on the word. Folding his arms, Patrick shook his head. " _No_. I still don't know who you _are_ or, you know, _what the fuck is going on_. So no, I'm not going to _sing_ for you! Stop fucking _pouting_!"  
  
"If I tell you, will you sing?"  
"Probably not."  
Pete laughed at that, meaning Patrick had failed to be intimidating.  
"I'll tell you, just because you've been so _nice_ to me. It's your typical story really. _Boy meets faery, boy is super cute, faery is smoking hot, boy catches faery in the night and insults him, they fall madly in love and get married the end_."

  
Patrick stared at him. "I'm not, I'm not sure that's how m-most stories go, to be honest," he began slowly.  
The guy shrugged. "Close enough."  
" _Listen_ um..."  
"Pete," The world's most scene faery filled in enthusiastically.  
"Listen, Pete, you are very, _very_ drunk, and I'd _really_ like it if you-" Patrick stuttered.

  
Wounded, Pete gasped. "Pad- Patrick. Don't be a _dick_ about it, just 'cause I woke you up. So _pissy_ ," he muttered, the last part to himself.  
"Yeah," Patrick tried to sound braver than he was, not actually sure if he believed Pete or not but happy to let his brain do the talking, "Uh, I don't know about you, but I don't know many benevolent woodland spirits called _Pete_ who dress like scene kids and call people _dicks_."

  
Pete looked thoughtful. "I know _one_...  Well, you can know yourself, right? Wow, that actually sounded really deep. Wait, _what_ did you-" Pete snorted ungracefully. "I'm not a ' _benevolent woodland spirit_ '. Holy _shit_ that's the most _adorable_ thing I've heard all year-" he broke off into sobs of laughter.  
   
Dutifully ignoring the blush on his own cheeks, Patrick growled at him. "Well, excuse _me_ for not believing you!"  
Pete sighed. "Ugh, you don't want me to _prove_ it to you, do you? That's so..." Playing a dramatic victim, he sighed and reached behind himself, tugging on something and screwing up his face in pain and then triumphantly handing Patrick the largest, reddest flower petal he'd ever seen. It was, thankfully, not a rose, just a generic, teardrop shaped red petal. Almost normal, except it was about a _foot_ long.

  
Dumbly, Patrick held it, craning his neck to see over Pete's shoulder in the dark. "Wha- Where did you _get_ that?" He spluttered.  
Pete turned around proudly. Patrick felt a little dizzy: There was a hole cut in Pete's hoodie, a huge red bloom protruding from it, like _wings_. Pete looked at the petal in Patrick's white hands. "Ooh, _sweet_ , red this season? That's _festive_ ," Pete exclaimed delightedly upon seeing it.

At Patrick's stare, which said ' _what the fuck is going on in my entire life right now_ ' but Pete misread as ' _why don't you know the colour of your own wing/flower whatever thing_ ' Pete shrugged. "It's not easy to see in a mirror, and I'm only just in bloom this year."  
And Patrick, instead of asking what the fuck was going on, considering how people don't usually go in bloom, huh, _ever_ , just questioned, "It's winter?"  
  
"Well _sorry_ for not coinciding with your facist, spring-blooming, conformist- nah, you're right. I'm not meant to, it's a genetic condition or whatever, my seasonal timing is just shit, I guess. In this day and age, it doesn't really affect anything, cause I get enough sunlight anyway - well, usually. It's actually quite common, but I'm like, spectacularly off, not just by a month or so. That's why I look sick, apart from the city thing, 'cause I'm not really getting enough energy to sustain myself in winter in Chicago. It's usually okay. I might dig my UV lamp out..." He muttered to himself.  
Patrick gawked at him. "It's _common_ to have a huge-ass flower on your back? Look, _explain_ means, make me feel _less_ confused. Since you started talking, I feel _more_ confused."  
  
Pete shrugged. "I heard this was meant to be a super bad winter, right? Basically, I can't go on planes because, y'know, _metal_ , so I was travelling on foot to L.A for the win-"  
Patrick held his hands up. "Woah, _Woah,_ you were travelling on _foot_ to _L.A_?"

  
"Yeah, I can move fast. Anyway, no planes... Yeah, so I needed somewhere to crash for a nap along the way - usually takes me about three days to get there - and you left your window open at night, _dumbass. So,_ I slept under your bed for a bit, and to say thank you, I left, well you _know_. And apparently you didn't like it very much which, I'm sorry about, but had you been a _bit_ more familiar with folklore, you would know that it's a really high compliment," Pete sniffed, mock offended.

"Whatever, _anyway_ , I hung around outside in the morning and I felt bad for making your room smell of something you hate, so I chilled around to find out what you'd _rather_ have, and then I heard you singing and holy _fuck_ -" Pete went red and hurried on, a rare moment of vulnerability. Patrick remembered something from his research about faeries loving music and art.

"Uhh, so I got you the enchanted guitar - which I didn't make, by the way, I got a buddy to do it, but I wrote your name on it: sorry about the spelling, by the way. I only ever learnt to spell from my mom who's super old fashioned and into, like the old languages and shit. She wanted me to be into our culture or whatever - and then I- you're... you're _really_ cute. So I kind of stuck around, which. I should be in L.A by now, but it's fine."  
                                                        
Unsure how he was meant to react to any of that, Patrick pulled the guitar onto his lap from where it lay on the bed. "It's pretty," he commented shyly. "Uh, in what way is it enchanted?"  
Pete shrugged, beaming. He was super fucking hot, as he kept shamelessly telling Patrick, but there was no way Patrick was letting him _know_ that. "No idea. It might just be _called_ enchanted 'cause it's from a faery. I dunno. Apart from my abysmal spelling, I literally know _nothing_ about that shit, to be honest."  
  
Patrick smiled at him, burning with curiosity about Pete's entire existence. Self consciously adjusting his pyjama top, he asked what he should sing. He was working on actually believing that he was about to sing for a weird, possibly gay, _definitely_ hot, embarrassingly emo, _mythical_ guy, in his room, at one a.m. _On a school night_ , the mom part of his brain added.    
  
Pete smirked wickedly. "Not sure. I'm not a _huge_ fan of all the white funk you got there..."  
Insulted, Patrick glared at him. Hands held up in surrender, Pete suggested, "You like Saves The Day, right?"  
Rolling his eyes, Patrick racked his brain for an approximation of the chords for Through Being Cool. " _Some_ kids get a record deal at sixteen. I get a pop-punk _flower fairy_. How do you even know what I like?"

  
"Call me a flower fairy again and you'll wake up with a broken nose. No, wait, punishment fits the crime right? My mom would be _delighted_ if I asked her to teach me some fun _curses_... how'd you fancy a beard that you can never shave off?" Lost in his evil plotting, Pete cackled. Patrick was pretty sure he was bullshitting. "Oh yeah, I looked through your records. _Dude_ , you're singlehandedly paying for Bowie's holidays this year."  
  
"Yeah. If I sing, will you shut up and go _away_? My mom is _so_ going to wake up and bust me."  
Pete tilted his head and said nothing, so Patrick started singing. Pete stayed entirely still the whole time, listening thoughtfully. When Patrick finished, Pete waited politely for him to set the guitar down and then grabbed him roughly and kissed him fully on the lips.

Stiffening at the touch, Patrick whimpered when his head was tipped to the side and his lips parted by Pete's tongue. Never having been kissed before made him have to struggle pretty hard to contain the noises he wanted to make. Bravely, he slid his hands around Pete and touched the seam between skin and flower, stroking it gingerly. At this, Pete twitched uncontrollably and whined, biting down on Patrick's bottom lip.

He released his grip on Patrick's shoulders slowly. "Sensitive," he apologised into Patrick's mouth. "Not, for future reference-" he struggled with longer sentences, panting against Patrick, " _Not_ bad."  
Eyes closed, Patrick thumbed the slightly puckered skin, feeling Pete squirm and kiss harder against the sensation.

He opened his eyes and wasn't sure what had happened - Pete was gone, the guitar was set gently on the floor, Patrick was tucked neatly into bed. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, but the huge red petal was clutched in his hand. _It was real, it was real._  
Dazed, he sank back into sleep.  
  
 In the morning there was a note on his bedside table:  
_A kiss frm a faery is gd luck + you already had the luck of meeting me, so thats double_  
_staying in chicago for the winter_  
_will call once i've dug out my old uv lamp_  
_\- p_

**Author's Note:**

> it's somewhat shorter and a lot less cute but i'm sick ok. i just liked the idea of pete bein in love w teenage patrick and leaving him weird gifts to try and woo him idk but he was originally going to be an alien so count yr blessings. there could be more if i get bored on christmas break next week. kudos/comments/whatever appreciated as always & thanks for all the sweet comments on my last fic!


End file.
